Colors
by pinkhearter13
Summary: "Do you know why snow is white? Snow is white because it's forgotten what color it once was." The first time she met him, it was snowing. Rated T for implied adult themes.


**Super-Long, Semi-Important Note that Everyone Probably Won't Read to my Extreme Dismay**

I wrote this totally without thinking about it thoroughly first, and I realize that this story is probably impossible (and I won't tell you why, because if YOU don't realize, then I'd rather you read it without thinking it, lol xD). So I wasn't ever going to post it originally. But then I got to thinking do we really KNOW much about Echo or Vincent? Not really. So technically it IS possible, since these things have not been fully explained. So basically, I just thought screw cannon and posted it.

It also took me a long time to decide on a title. I didn't make a "snow" title because I felt that would be too dull (which is ironic because that's the point of this story, so maybe I should've gone with a title relating to snow after all). For a long time, I wanted to call it "Black Roses" because it would show (my perception of) Vincent's nature, which is what Echo ignores. Then I thought there's way more to this than that title... So I went with "White and Black" to show the contrast between Echo and Vincent, but that is just a sooo-incredibly-boring title. And actually, as I'm writing this author's note, I finally just decided what I wanted to call it, lol. (Yes, I started writing about my trouble deciding on a title before deciding a title, hahaha.) "Colors" sort of includes all of the above. Snow as white, black roses are black, the contrast between white and black, and how Echo sees Vincent as "colorful," an idea that I never hovered on a title for. It even is ironic slightly because white and black are not truly colors, despite the title describing them—a major theme I tried to show, as Echo sees Vincent as colorful which to her means "beautiful," and she IGNORES the blackness on the inside—the _lack_ of color, the _lack_ of beauty. So the ironic nature of "Colors" as the title, and the meaning behind it is fitting enough to satisfy me. XD So I think that this author's note has gone on long enough. But first of all, I decided to keep the note, because the rest of the titles can still be included, even though they aren't THE title, and second of all, I am very thankful for writing this anyway, because it finally helped me decide on a final title. :D

Oh, and just one last thing, before I let you read. And if you have read this far, I thank you. You are amazing. Here's your reward. If you look up Black Roses on wikipedia, and go on symbolism . . . You will find SUPER creepy similarities between Vincent and that symbolism. It's really, really creepy. But don't let me tempt you. Don't go check. It isn't that important. (I'm learning reverse psychology in my psychology class. ^^)

I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer**

I don't own.

**Colors  
****Pinkhearter13**

"_Do you know why snow is white? Snow is white because it's forgotten what color it once was."  
~C.C. from Code Geass_

The first time she met him, it was snowing.

She didn't particularly like the snow then. It was cold and sometimes bitter against her skin. The whiteness was so dull, and even if every flake was different, there was no point to something so plain. She might see it as beautiful from a distance, but the closer she got, the colder she felt. And really—it was only used to make other things look more colorful.

And as she watched _him _stand amidst the falling snowflakes, she realized it. His blond, shoulder-length hair glistened against the dull whiteness. One red eye, and one golden, and his skin a perfect tone—she thought maybe she wanted to be with him forever.

"I've seen you before," he said in a voice so pure and smooth, "but I'm afraid I don't know who you are."

Still trapped in the sight of someone so—so colorful, Echo almost forgot she had to answer, especially, and only his pleasant, patient smile at her silence reminded her to speak. "Echo is a servant of the Nightray House," she mumbled, embarrassed. He must have been use to the mindless stares at him—he was beautiful, and a noble, and girls probably revered him. With the ability to think again in his presence, Echo worried over how silly she must have looked and how she might have bored him.

But the boy merely smiled wider and approached her, and even closer, that beauty didn't change. "Oh? Someone so young is a servant?"

"Yes," she said, so honored that he would stop and speak with her. "Echo was born into servitude."

His hand ruffled her hair, and she winced in surprise, and her heart melted, and she might have fainted if she hadn't been so eager and desperate to seem proper, unlike before when she had stared and hadn't answered. A chuckle escaped his lips, and she listened in awe. So—so perfect. Everything the snow wished to be. Colorful.

"I see," he said. "Well, Echo, my name is Vincent, and I have a question for you."

She straightened, and nodded politely. _Anything_, she heard herself whisper. His _warm _hand touched her shoulder. Everything the snow wished to be. Warm. Her heart beat frantically at the realization that she'd likely never have the chance to speak with him again after this.

"Would you like to become my personal servant?"

A shock like cold water swept over her, and breathlessly she could only nod. How had it happened like this—exactly—the way she wanted. Tears gathered in her eyes, as he smiled in such a way that implied he hadn't expected her to agree and he was relieved at her speechless nod.

"Oh, I'm so glad. I've been searching for a while, and you seem _perfect_. Thank you."

And she was so lost and blind in her shock that she didn't notice things she would easily notice now. Instead, she grinned, and politely gave him her own word of thanks.

From there, he proceeded to teach her everything she was expected to do, and really, most of her expectations were spontaneous requests while she was at his side. It was almost always that she could be at his side. And the snow soon stopped, and fell to spring, and then to summer, and she was very happy. Happier than ever before. Loving and loved.

Her new master was everything the snow wasn't. _Alive._

One time, he gave her a day to herself, and she was so thankful. She spent a day in the gardens, and worked endlessly on a handmade reef she could give him. She gathered the flowers, especially the red roses, because Eliot, her master's step-brother, had explained to her what red roses symbolized, and she knew that was what she felt for her master.

But when she returned, late at night because the gift had taken so long to create, he had only been angry—he had smiled, but he had been angry. She could hear the terrifying accusation underneath that pleasant, calm tone, and she had feared it then—she might have noticed it then.

"You are not allowed to be late, Echo."

And she had held out the reef of red roses and petals, mixed with some white daisies, and instantly, the smile had disappeared, and he had taken it from her hands, violently, some of the petals falling.

"What is this?" he asked in that deadly tone she had never heard before.

"Echo made it for Vincent-sama," she said courteously, "because Echo was told a red rose would show someone's love for a person. Echo couldn't finish before the sun—"

"Enough." And he had ripped the reef apart, the red and white falling to the ground at Echo's feet. She stared blankly, heartlessly at the petals, and Vincent had grabbed her by the chin, and forced her gaze upon him. "Why aren't they black, Echo?" he whispered—taunting—under his breath, and she saw that his other hand still held three of the flowers in his hands, crushing them. "The roses should be black."

She frowned in confusion. "What?"

"No red roses, Echo," he said. His breath was hot against her lips, and she didn't understand what it meant as she felt the heat grow between her legs, but knew it did mean _something_. "Never. Understand? Especially with white. You couldn't have made something worse than what you did."

Tears built up in her eyes, but she didn't have time to force them down, as he pressed his lips against hers, and she numbly stood there. Frozen. And her mind, the childlike mind, wondered . . .

"Now clean it up, Echo."

Was it okay to love him unconditionally?

Days later, she asked Eliot what a black rose symbolized, and discovered it meant many things, and none of them good. He scolded her for asking and wasting his time. He said they symbolized things like hatred and revenge, and death and mourning. Almost tearfully, she told him she had heard enough, and he left.

She never visited the garden again.

Things started changing then. He began asking for things that she wasn't eager to do anymore. They made her feel strange, and lonely, and she felt defiled. Before she knew it, she had withdrawn from willing social engagement—because how could anyone love her anymore?

He started punishing her for simple things that she had previously thought were not under her control. He taught her that she had to be perfect, he repeatedly taught her—and one time, she begged him and sobbed, and said, "I don't _want_ to be perfect."

She never argued again after that.

Another time, she considered running away and living on the streets. Out of all the better opportunities, she made up her mind at night, when his arms ensnared her, and she tried to slip away. He caught her dressing only a minute later, and instead of the punishment she expected, his face fell—grieving something lost.

She paused upon realizing that _she _had caused that face.

"Don't you love me anymore?" he asked quietly, not even moving to stop her.

Her hands balled into fists with regret. How could she have caused him sadness? She loved him. She loved him unconditionally. She didn't remember why, but she knew.

"I guess it's fine if you run away," he said, and dropped his gaze. "I will be worried though . . . You won't survive the next winter alone, and no one will take you in . . . Because—I am the only one who can love you now . . . Echo . . ."

She cried, and immediately rushed back into her master's waiting arms, and she ignored the smirk that spread across his face. She listened to his pure, smooth voice instead. Pretending, pretending, always pretending.

"I'll keep you safe from everything." He kissed the top of her head. "Just stay with me."

And at some point—gradually, or overnight, she couldn't be sure—she remembered forgetting everything. And by the time it snowed a second time—and maybe, she thought, she had hated the snow a long time ago—the white, blank flakes reminded her briefly—_eerily—_of herself, and she didn't know who she was.


End file.
